Sweat and cheap alcohol polluted the air, rowdy whoops and near glass-breaking cheers as beer bottles clacked against one another. Beer-belly laughter, rasped with the toll of years of smokes and the unprecedented amount of testosterone to grow horrid untamed viking-esque beards. Pretty, willing girls, sipping sweet cocktails, waiting for anything to sweep them off their feet, chatted up by guys with two divorces and a pickup truck in the lot.

A petulant scowl set across Sam’s lips, glancing down at the stickied floors, suctioning his already muddied shoes into a dirtier surface. Dean was bright eyes and grins, admiring the atrocity of a Saturday night crowd as though anyone in the room served deeper purpose.

Worried focus on some entity terrorizing the town of Asheville fell on deaf ears with Dean’s useless attention span hyper-fixated on a girl across the bar.

"Yeah, yeah, vengeful spirit. Salt and burn. We got this in the bag," Dean mumbled absentmindedly, and with a departing clap on his brother’s shoulder, he’d already charmed his way to the seat beside some girl. The distant whispers of some horrifying pickup line Dean offered an unsuspecting girl earned a final childish eye roll from Sam before he busied himself in the corner of the bar.

Eyes stung with the bright glow of the computer screen, reading over article after article of fantasy lore, lacking a shred of real substance. An hour had ticked by, left stranded as Dean ran off with some chick to do what god doesn’t want to know.

Heavy eyelids and exhausted bones finally permitted Sam to slump in his chair, bleary gaze subconsciously drifting around the bar. His head picked up, focus recentering as he watched a girl sat modestly at the bar — legs crossed, jacket pulled taut to provide an ounce of coverage against the man looming over her, grinning down with biting malice. He watched a moment longer, far more attentive to the panicked rejections and plea to be left alone, ignored by some drunken creep.

Instinct had strides carry him to the bar, steps rushed as he saw the stranger’s hand reach for any provocative contact on the girl. He stepped between, blocking dirty hands from infecting purity.

"The hell’s your problem, man?" he slurred, stumbling back an offended step. Wedding-ringed hand found purchase on the bar counter, stabilizing drunken stumbles. A creep and a cheater.

"She told you 'no'," Sam spoke — simplistic, calm, nearly condescending in its politeness. "So drop it and move on."

The man scoffed, indignant. "She’s playing hard to get, ain’t that right, sweetheart?"